


My Hands on Yours

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Artist!Sam, Fluff, M/M, Teachers, historian!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day, history teacher Castiel Novak walks down the hall to have his lunch outside the school's greenhouse, and every day, his footsteps slow down as he passes the school's art studio, where the new art teacher works—Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Hands on Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】My Hands on Yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350733) by [pacemaker_fi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacemaker_fi/pseuds/pacemaker_fi)



History has always been Castiel's passion, and there's nothing better than passing the useful knowledge onto others. That's the reason he became a teacher in the first place, and then he came to work at Crossroads Academy, a special private high school for students who have already found their passions in life, and parents who have the money to shell out for the most expensive school tuition this side of the Mississippi River.

He gets to do something he loves every day and is paid more than a generous amount for being just a high school teacher, so Castiel can't complain. He has his own office—a high school teacher with an office? You bet—and teaches four classes out of the six periods of the day, given two planning periods and a long lunch break.

Every day during the school-wide lunch period, where students and faculty alike are allowed to leave the beautiful nature-covered campus to eat elsewhere. Other than his small office, Castiel usually chooses to eat in the small sitting area just outside of the science building, the one with the greenhouse filled with plant experiments from the freshman biology classes.

On his way to his lunch spot, Castiel has to walk down the hallway between the gymnasium—well taken care of, expensive and brand new—and the art studio.

 _Oh,_ the art studio.

Castiel wouldn't admit it to anyone out loud, but he certainly slows his footsteps every time he gets near the room, slow enough that he's able to crane his neck just so, in order to see the corners of the room without attracting too much attention to himself.

Yes, there he is.

The new art teacher.

He hasn't met the man in person yet, but he's heard stories, whisperings between teachers in the teachers' lounge. A very tall man, around thirty years old--just a few years younger than Castiel is—with shaggy brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes.

Or so they say. Castiel hasn't gotten that close to see the new teacher's eyes, but only from afar.

"Ooof!"

Castiel slams into someone while not looking where he was going. The person he bumped into was much shorter, and for a moment, he panics because it may be a student. But he sees the flash of red hair and he knows it's Miss Anna Milton.

"Mr. Novak," the literature teacher says, winded as she transfers a large stack of books between her arms. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to get all these books back to the library before the day is over."

Castiel nods, glancing at the high stack of books in her arms.

"But you don't have that excuse," Anna continues, carefully looking him over with a smirk gracing her lips. "You were distracted by something else, hm?"

Oh god, does she know?

"Looking at something? In the studio, perhaps?"

Oh god, she _definitely_ knows.

"Well, better get out of this hallway so you're not a danger to anyone else!" she says in a sing-song voice, grinning widely as she pushes him between the shoulders until he's just past the doorway of the studio.

Castiel freezes there, not knowing what to do in the room he's been walking past for a month but passively avoiding going into. He can hear Anna's laugh echoing down the hall.

The art studio is currently devoid of students—all have left in search of food and friends—but the teacher and man in question still remains. Castiel has never seen Mr. Winchester eat lunch anywhere on the school's grounds, so he's always figured that he eats lunch in his own space, in the studio.

His eyes dart around, taking in the studio's organized chaos. It's almost disorienting, an attack on his senses—there are drawings taped to the walls initialed by the students, abstract watercolors pieces hanging from strings going from wall to wall in every direction, every desk surface is covered with drying paint and ink and there's a small army of clay figurines lined up in the back near the kilns.

But Sam—no, Mr. Winchester—is seated by the wall-to-wall windows, hunched over a throwing wheel with his arms covered with clay, up to his elbows.

Castiel has a fleeting thought that he can step back through the doorway and back into the hall without being noticed, but that thought is dashed when the potting wheel slows to a stop and Mr. Winchester's head lifts and turns his direction.

Hazel eyes, just like was said. Bright and dazzling hazel eyes.

"Can I help you?" he asks, keeping his hands firmly against the small vase he's sculpting from gray clay. His voice is deep but sweet, gentle and soft and completely different from what Castiel would have guessed.

Castiel is silent, having no idea what to say. _'Sorry, my colleague shoved me into your studio'_? _'I've been secretly spying on your room for over a month'_? Those would both be taken the wrong way, and that's not at all what he wants his first impression to be like.

"I just wanted to say hello," Castiel starts, licking his lips as he stumbles a little over the words. He brings a fist to cover his mouth as he clears his throat. "And welcome you to the Academy."

The teacher's eyes widen a little and his thin lips drop open. "Oh."

"But I can see that you're busy—" Castiel continues, turning to leave the studios as fast as he can. He's already made a fool of himself, dropping in unannounced and barely being able to speak.

But Mr. Winchester is already out of his seat, unstraddling the small stool behind the throwing wheel and striding towards him quickly with long legs.

Tall, indeed.

"Hello. I've seen you around before, who are you? I'm Sam Winchester, art studio director." Sam reaches a hand forward, offering it out to shake, but retracts it almost immediately, raising it up for both of them to see. "Oops, I've got clay all over, sorry."

"No problem," Castiel says, not knowing why Sam is apologizing for doing his job. "I'm Castiel Novak."

"The history teacher, right?"

"Yes," Castiel says with a nod, surprised that Sam has heard of him. Their rooms aren't even remotely close together, and if it weren't for Castiel eating lunch outside for the past month, they might have never seen each other.

"It's nice to meet you," Sam greets him again, cheeks dimpling and the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles brightly. The sight makes Castiel's face heat up.

"You too," he returns weakly. Mr. Winchester is the cutest teacher by far that works at the Academy. And it would be best if Castiel removed himself from this situation fast before doing or saying something stupid.

He can't even look Sam in the eye, staring past his shoulder to the potting wheel with the unfinished... vase?... sitting on top of it, centered on it. He's about to excuse himself, to lunch, to his room, to anywhere-but-here but the other man casts a glance over his shoulder, to where Castiel is staring.

"Do you want to see what I've been working on?" Sam offers, gesturing over toward the throwing wheel with a jerky point of his thumb. Castiel can't even get out an answer before Sam is leading him towards the back corner, the history teacher trailing after him.

He was going to leave, honestly, but there's just something about Sam Winchester that he can't say no to. Besides, he's curious about the man and his work, how his passion lies within teaching the finer arts to high school students.

Sam sits back down behind the wheel, straddling the stool with those obscenely long legs--oddly clad in paint smattered jeans with little bits of drying clay across the thighs.

The artist must catch him eyeing his apparel. "Oh, yeah. I uh, change into different clothes during classes," Sam says sheepishly, and he nods in understanding. No use getting good clothes messy, despite the strict professional dress code the school enforces.

Sam begins to work on his vase, curving his long fingers along the top, working the wet clay in his hands. It begins to take shape, slowly but surely taking form into a Grecian shaped vase with a long and skinny neck. Castiel's brain immediately places the shape and style of Lekythos, a type of pottery usually used only for burials. Of course, Sam probably isn't making that, specifically. Castiel watches him intensely, admiring the man's hands guiding the clay into shape, Sam's expression focused on his work. It's enchanting, a sort of passion that he just doesn't see that much in the history academic world anymore.

"Would you like to try?" Sam says, looking up from his work but still pressing the pedal, wheel still turning beneath his hands. The vase looks more complete now with a flared rim and thin neck, but he still forms the sides perfectly while not even looking.

Castiel considers it for a moment, thinking about excusing himself for lunch, but Sam doesn't seem to want to give him much room to budge.

"I'll get you an apron," Sam says, already out of his seat to retrieve one of the many that hang from hooks lining the wall. He chooses one of the least used one, without a million dabs of paint or heavy stains before striding back to Castiel.

Sam holds out the apron by the neck straps, motioning for Castiel to step forwards and bow his head. The apron slips over his head and Sam steps behind him to tie the back, securing it on his frame and covering most of his khaki slacks and argyle sweater.

"You'll want to hike those sleeves up," Sam warns, moving to stand behind the stool of a different wheel, reaching over to a plastic-covered block of gray clay and carving out a handful of it with his fingers before tossing it on to the surface of the wheel.

Slowly, Castiel moves to sit at the wheel, sitting as gracefully on the stool, knees falling on either side and knocking accidentally against the sides of the machine.  


"Okay, so wet your hands in the water over here," says a voice just inches away from his ear. Sam is leaned over his shoulder, giving him directions with that gentle voice of his.

The whole situation is an absolute dream—albeit an embarrassing one. Castiel's hands are unskilled and unsteady, creating a bowl with wavy and uneven sides, with dips and curves and little scratchmarks where his nails accidentally bit into the clay. Castiel almost lets the clay spin out of control, accidentally stepping on the pedal too hard after Sam touches his shoulder with his elbow, nudging him on.

But Sam comes to his rescue graciously, pressing his large, clay covered hands around Castiel's, guiding them to shape the bowl upright and proper again. He feels his cheeks heat up again and he's forever grateful that Sam is behind him, unable to see his face.

Castiel's bowl looks good in the end, but it's definitely because of Sam's doing, helping him each step of the way. It's only after he's done that Castiel realizes that lunch is two minutes from over, watch ticking away on the table from when he took it off and placed it next to his uneaten lunch.

He has to excuse himself quickly, grabbing his stuff off the table and apologizing to Sam as he breezes out the door. The teacher just waves him off, chuckling with dimples in his cheeks and a gentle smile.

/ / / / /

The next Monday, Castiel comes into his small office to unpack the day's things—his teaching supplies, his lesson plan, graded papers and new worksheets—and sees a small object on his desk.

His bowl, fired and glazed and already completed. It makes him look twice, cheeks turning red again as he remembers his lunchtime with Sam. It's thoughtful, Sam firing and glazing his piece in favor of just returning the clay to the scrap heap.

But he has to double-take again, as there's a small piece of colored construction paper in the bottom of the bowl.

_'Sam Winchester, 755-240-5901'_

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @ GhostGarrison


End file.
